Just Another Sellsword
by The Geordie Lass
Summary: It's a year since Ramza 'turned and walked away' from the only life he had ever known. He's rudderless and still caught up in self-recrimination for failing to save Tietra and Delita. Can he even find the motivation to take up his new acquaintance's offer to put in a good word with his boss? A story about how Ramza might have ended up with Ladd and Gaffgarion.


I was trying to find inspiration for the next one of my Camp-Fire Vignettes and instead I suddenly had an idea about how Ramza ends up working for Gaffgarion. I was originally going to use it as a prologue to the second set of vignettes, but it's a bit longer and it has a sightly different style to those, so I decided, instead, to make it a one-shot. Don't worry if you haven't read the vignettes, though, this can be totally stand-alone.

Sorry, I know it's rather angsty, but I hope that you'll agree that it isn't angst for angst's sake. I really think that this is the head-space Ramza would be in, at this point.

NB - In case you've never played the War of the Lions version of FFT, "just another sellsword" is how Ramza describes himself in the very first scene of the game - the one that begins with Ovelia praying.

* * *

Just Another Sellsword

_The Brown Bear Inn, Dorter, Dawn_

_Damnation! Did those bloody birds have to be so loud?_

It wasn't the dawn chorus – which consisted of the loudly cawing inhabitants of the rookery in the trees at the back of the inn – but the fullness of his bladder that had actually woken Ramza. But now that _that_ urgent need had been dealt with, he just wanted to get back to sleep and those damned raucous birds would not shut up!

Even more than wanting quiet and sleep, though, he wanted to be sick. Also, his head pounded and his mouth was so parched and scratchy that he felt like no water had passed his lips for at least a week. He knew that that was the problem – he hadn't been drinking _water_ yesterday_, _and he had had more alcohol, in the last forty-eight hours, than any three men should be able to drink in a month!

_And did it stop me thinking about what happened to Tietra and Delita a year ago? No! All I did was sit and cry like a baby as I remembered over and over how she crumpled as the cross-bow bolt pierced... NO! _He would _not_ think about that any more!

He had also remembered Delita's words about where his wrath would turn, after Argath was dead. Delita had died blaming Ramza for his brothers' crimes. His _noble _brothers had lied about what they were intending and Zalbaag had ordered the cold-blooded murder of the only true family Delita had left – though not without Dycedarg, in turn, having given prior instructions, Ramza felt certain.

No matter what he and Delita had both said about being like brothers, in the end, Ramza had been a Beoulve and Delita could not forgive any of them for killing his sister. Ramza couldn't forgive them either, not even himself. _Especially_ not himself! He should have done more, pushed them faster – an hour, even a few minutes earlier and Tietra might not... and then Delita wouldn't...

_STOP IT! _He told himself. _Tietra is _dead!_ Delita is _dead!_ This pathetic whining_ _isn't going to bring them back!_

Seven weeks ago, he'd supposedly given up alcohol, having finally realised that, if he carried on drinking like he had been, he would be unlikely to even see his twenties. Yet, somehow, this morning, he had woken with the worst hangover he'd ever had in his life. The anniversary of the tragedy, the _catastrophe,_ at Ziekden Fortress was all the excuse Ramza had needed to fall off that particular wagon and go on a two day binge.

He dragged himself back out of his narrow bed and down both flights of stairs to the inn's kitchen. It really must be early, he thought muzzily, if he was the first up. He found a large flagon and filled it with water at the pump, grabbed a clean tankard, filled that also, and downed its contents. He staggered back up to bed, carrying the full flagon and the empty tankard, spilling surprisingly little on the way, considering that his hands were trembling horribly.

By the time he got back to his room his stomach was roiling, threatening to reject even the plain water her had put into it. Sweating and shaking, he lay down and tried to remain very still, knowing that even a slight movement might lead to the obvious outcome of this level of nausea. Now if he just moved v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, he might be able to get the willow bark from his bedside cabinet without making things worse. As he sat up a little, he almost retched and instead he went back to lying flat, trying to stay perfectly still. He'd probably be better doing without the bark and just resigning himself to the headache, he decided.

_What the hell was I trying to _do_ yesterday? Drink myself to death so that I could join them?_ He asked himself, not for the first time that morning. _And if I knew I was going to get _that_ drunk, why the hell didn't I go and buy some potions so that I could take the edge off the hangover? More self-punishment? _He wondered for a moment about a hair-of-the-dog, but that was, in part, why he felt so bad right now.

Two days ago, the actual anniversary of their deaths, he'd taken the day off work and got himself paralytically drunk. Yesterday, his usual weekly day off, he'd woken up mid-morning, feeling almost as bad as this, and noticed that there was still some brandy left in the bottle on his bedside cabinet. After drinking that off, he'd tottered down to the bar and bought himself another couple of bottles, even though old Ma Brighthelm, the innkeeper's mother, had tried to dissuade him. He idly wondered why he _wasn't_ dead of alcoholic poisoning.

He suddenly realised that, as he'd spent _two_ whole days drinking, he'd have to work this afternoon and evening. Gods! He hoped he felt a little better than this by then. Even as the bouncer for a scruffy little inn, such as the Bear, he couldn't show up for work looking and _smelling _like this. Even he realised he must stink like a brewery. First a few more hours sleep, then a bath - he'd be so much better if he could just manage that. He closed his eyes.

* * *

The following morning, Ramza felt a lot less... delicate, though the previous evening at work been something of a trial. Thank the gods that it had been a slow night! The only incident had been a major row between three members of a band of sellswords, who had arrived that afternoon to stay at the inn. However, they'd taken it outside before Ramza had even needed to intervene.

It was barely mid-morning – at least four hours until he was expected to take his place in the bar as chucker-out and occasional potboy. All of his meagre wages had been spent on his binge and he was feeling restless, but not in the mood for a walk, so he strapped on his old mythril sword and went down to the stables.

Under a covering of sackcloth was a rough training dummy that he'd made about six weeks before. He was kind of ashamed of just how crude it looked and wondered if he should try again. However, he was no craftsman and any new one was likely to look just as bad, so he just dragged it out and set it up in a quiet corner of the stable-yard.

He didn't know why he still sometimes felt compelled to train like this. Did he imagine he'd ever use his skills in combat again for anything but dealing with a few rowdy drunks?... _Ever?_ No that was wrong – this place, this life was not _forever_, just until he worked out what he was supposed to do now that he wasn't a Beoulve. It might be a name with a long and honourable history and, indeed, it was the name of his beloved father, but he doubted he could bring himself to use it as long as his brothers still did.

Ramza Lugria might only be bouncer of a run-down inn, right now, but this name, at least, was that of hard-working, kind, _good_ people and he'd do his best not to sully that. Perhaps he should go and visit his grandparents - he missed them. That way he might see Alma too; "missing" her was far too mild a word for the ache he felt at not having seen her in over a year. The pain of it was nearly as bad as what he felt when he thought of Delita and Tietra.

Ramza Lugria could also still swing a sword as well as, if not better than, most foot-soldiers and if he didn't want to lose that skill, altogether, he needed to train. He began to do exercises to stretch and warm his muscles, also doing his best to clear his mind so that he could concentrate on the "combat" ahead – _yeah, because I really need all this preparation to fight with a mommet made of wood and straw,_ he told himself. But that _was _how one prepared for a fight and who knew when he might need to use that ability again? He drew his sword.

"I wouldn't have expected a bouncer to use a sword. Isn't it bad for business to run your employer's customers through?" He heard an amused voice coming from behind him.

He turned and saw a smiling man, perhaps three or four years his senior, settling himself on the closest of the benches that were set at intervals around the stable-yard. He recognised him as one of the mercenaries from the band who had been disagreeing so loudly in the bar, the previous evening. This, though, was the one who had initially tried to calm the situation down, and who hadn't even gone outside with the others but had stayed peaceably in the tap-room after he'd failed at that.

Ramza considered him carefully before speaking. To Ramza's ears, the man had had no accent, to speak of, which probably meant he was high-born – unusual, but not unheard of, amongst the "better class" of mercenary. That was a little confusing, though - the "better class" of anyone did not stay at the Bear. The man sat with one booted foot resting casually on his other knee and his whole attitude was laid-back, almost lackadaisical, but his eyes were keen. Not necessarily keen in the sense of being suspicious or sardonic, Ramza thought, but it was clear that he was not unintelligent and that he was observing Ramza closely.

Ramza shifted uncomfortably under that gaze, then shrugged in a belated response to the man's earlier question. He hesitated a moment, then sheathed his sword with a sigh. He was not in the mood to do any training under this man's seemingly over-observant eye. Seeing that, the man grinned.

"I'm sorry if I interrupted you, I just thought, last night, that there was something vaguely familiar about you, so when I saw you out here, from my bedroom window, I thought I'd come down and find out if I _did_ know you. I've already heard you speak, by the way – last night when the daughter of the house was talking to you. So, you see, I already know that your accent just _screams_ that you aren't from this walk of life, originally, if that's what's making you so closed-mouthed."

Ramza regarded him warily for a moment, then shrugged again, still not speaking.

"I'm Ladd, Ladd Owens, by the way." The still-smiling man held out a hand and, even after Ramza's awkward wariness, he wore an open and friendly grin. An _apparently_ open and friendly grin, Ramza told himself bitterly – people who were this pleasant usually wanted something – they so often had an agenda.

Delita had once said, with an exasperated affection, that Ramza was congenitally incapable of not observing the niceties of life and so, even after his last thought, he automatically went forward, hand extended to shake Ladd's proffered hand, and would have introduced himself. Just before he touched the other man's hand, there was a loud shout from the kitchen doorway.

"Ramza, come here, boy! I need a _word _with you!" Just before he turned away to speak to his employer, he saw Ladd's eyes widen slightly. Coupling that with his earlier statement that Ramza seemed vaguely familiar, Ramza was now doubly wary of the man – had he been recognised? Would this man go to his brothers and tell them where he was? He was a sellsword and Ramza had no doubt that that meant he'd sell information too, if it brought in a decent amount of gil.

Perhaps Dycedarg and Zalbaag would not be bothering to look for him, though - perhaps his caution was for nothing. He was only their half-brother, after all, and born a bastard of a low-born woman. A woman who Ramza suspected that Dycedarg, at least, had had no regard for whatsoever. Unlike Dycedarg, Zalbaag had always acted like a loving brother and he'd even shown liking and respect for his step-mother. _He often _acted_ like a loving brother to Tietra, too, _Ramza reminded himself.

"Are you _deaf,_ boy?" Now much closer, the near-shout drew him out of his reverie.

He gave Ladd a slight nod and muttered "Pray, excuse me."

"I'm sorry, Mr Brighthelm. What was it you wished to speak to me about?" He walked toward the man. Unfortunately, the innkeeper had already closed much of the distance between himself and his bouncer already and Ramza knew that the man was far from being the soul of discretion. He was also angry, though Ramza didn't know what about. These two facts, combined, must mean that whatever was annoying the man, the smiley Ladd would get to hear the whole of it.

"Look at this!" Ramza looked at the object. He wasn't sure if he was meant to take it or, maybe, just identify it.

"It's a book. My book. The one I lent to Miss Annabel." He said - his tone and body language said "so what?"

The innkeeper thrust it into his hand and pointed at the piece of parchment which was apparently being used as a bookmark.

"_That!_ Written in my daughter's hand, _that_ is what you need to be looking at!" Ramza opened the book, and flushed bright red. The paper had his own name on it with dozens of little love-hearts drawn around it.

"Mr Brighthelm, I... Sir, I can assure you that I have done nothing to encourage..."

"I'll just _bet_ you haven't!" The irate man interrupted.

"Honestly, sir, I haven't done _anything_!" He was silent for a moment. "Mr Brighthelm, you offered me a job in the _first_ place because I had ably defended your daughter's honour from a drunkard who was behaving most improperly towards her. You _know_ that that was hardly the only time I've done so – she's an attractive girl and the customers take notice..."

"Aye - and you've _taken_ _notice_ too!" The inkeeper interrupted.

"Perhaps I've _noticed_ but _not_ in the way you imply. I _promise_ that I have done _nothing_ that might have encouraged these apparent feelings for me. I have only ever been polite and respectful towards her. In fact, I've treated her with all the honour and solicitude I would my own _sister_. There has never been a word, a look or a touch between us that could not have, very properly, passed between siblings, I assure you. I had no idea..." He gestured helplessly at the paper.

"Well now." Mr Brighthelm said, in a less aggressive, more considering tone. "I've certainly seen no evidence of the two of you... and girls of sixteen _can_ sometimes... All right, boy, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, this time. But if I get the least _hint _that I'm being a fool to do that_, _you'll be out on your ear - understand?" Ramza sighed and nodded, slightly annoyed that his future employment might well be more dependent on his employer's daughter's over-active imagination than his own actions.

Perhaps he should just leave anyway. He didn't need this sort of hassle in his life. He genuinely had no interest in the girl. Oh, she was pretty enough but not overly bright and something of a daydreamer. If she got it into her head... No, he wouldn't borrow trouble - he'd spent the last year avoiding thoughts of the future, so he wasn't about to start worrying about it now. The painful thoughts of the past, that had been consuming him for so many months, were more than enough stress to be going on with!

He sank onto the bench that Ladd Owens still sat on, at the furthest end from him. Ramza thought he could feel the other man's eyes on him.

"Well laddie, how about we spar for a bit? I always find a bit of a scrap, to get it out of my system, helps me when I've been given a telling-off." The man suddenly said, to Ramza's irritation.

Yet... there was something in what Ladd said. "A bit of a scrap" would help him blow off steam.

He nodded and stood, so did Ladd. Ramza took in that Ladd was a couple of inches taller than he was, but that it shouldn't be enough to give him a real advantage in reach. He wasn't any broader in the shoulders and his arms weren't noticeably thicker, so he couldn't have much strength advantage either. Ramza was still a month off eighteen, though, and Ladd was just sufficiently his elder that he might well have far more experience and skill than Ramza.

Some time later, the two young men were back on the bench, damp with sweat and breathing hard. They may have spoken little during their bout, but Ramza now had far more friendly feelings towards the other man. He told himself that he was being silly and incautious, he just missed the camaraderie he'd had from Delita and his squad – he knew nothing of this man and, therefore, could not trust him. _No hang on_, he told himself, _if recent experience is anything to go by, it isn't **strangers **I need to mistrust!_

"So how does someone who can disarm me twice in the space of ten minutes come to be working in a dive like this?" Ladd asked casually.

Ramza shrugged.

"I know you overheard the whole thing, Ladd. You heard why Brighthelm offered me the job."

"I was more wondering why you would have accepted, though... and why Lord Ramza _Beoulve_ would even have been frequenting a lowly tavern such as this, in the first place." Ladd's voice never lost its deceptively casual tone.

Ramza turned quickly to face him, shock written on his features. He silently cursed himself – why did he always have to just _react_ to everything that happened. If only he'd managed to make his face look confused, he could have gone on to ask Ladd what in Ivalice made him think that Ramza's surname was Beoulve. Instead his shock had just confirmed it.

Who was he kidding? Both Alma and Delita had teased him, many a time, about his inability to tell a convincing lie, even to keep himself out of trouble.

Ladd held up a pacifying hand, smiling gently.

"It's none of my business, what you do with your life, I know that. I won't make excuses for why I'm asking – I'm just nosy. I'm not a blabbermouth, though. If you satisfy my curiosity, no-one else will hear it from me. _Nor_ will they hear who you really are." He held up his hand again as if to stop Ramza speaking. "They won't hear that anyway, Ramza. Sorry - I didn't mean to imply that I was making a condition."

Ramza kind of liked the straightforward honesty and humour of that "I'm just nosy". He might just tell the man what he wanted to know, if he got a few answers himself first. Despite the suspicious nature he kept telling himself he needed to cultivate, he knew he really would find it cathartic to finally _tell_ someone. He needed to know who he was telling first, though.

"How did you _know_?" He asked quietly.

"I was in my final year at Gariland Akademy when you started. You may not have realised, but the last of the Beoulve brothers attending the school alongside us peons was the talk of the place, for the first weeks of your first term. Then your low-born friend beginning a couple of months later, at the behest of your Lord father, caused something of a stir too. I don't suppose you realise just how easy it would be for anyone who was at the Akademy during your time to recognise you." Ramza looked sceptical.

"Seriously laddie, you're Lord Barbaneth Beoulve's son, Lord Dycedarg and Lord Zalbaag's brother. Your family has practically _been_ the Order of the Northern Sky, since your grandfather's time. What do you expect?" The man grinned at Ramza's surprise.

Ramza wanted to correct Ladd, to say that, though he certainly was proud to be Barbaneth Beoulve's son, he only classed himself as having one living sibling and that was Alma. He didn't though. While he just _might_ give Ladd the bare bones of his story, he didn't feel like washing too much of his dirty linen in public that day.

"I can remember a lot of people who were there at the same time as me. Everyone in Phoenix House, certainly, so which one were you in?" Ramza asked.

"Viera. You'd never remember me, anyway. I wasn't _bad_ at anything, but I was never the best, so I never made much of a name for myself. Besides," the man shrugged again and looked sheepish now, "I was kicked out three or four months after you started, so there isn't any chance you'd remember me."

"Viera." Ramza said, musingly. "I might not remember you, but I'm pretty sure I've _heard_ of you. There was only one member of Viera House who was expelled while I was there. I wasn't the only one who caused a stir that year, you know! So you were the one who..." Ramza trailed off, though he couldn't help grinning, just a little.

"Yeah. I was the one who... was caught in flagrante with the House Master's new wife." Ladd looked embarrassed. "She was only eighteen, and she'd never wanted to be married to that crusty old fart, you know. So when I ended up staying at school for the holiday between Spring and Summer term... well, in retrospect, I wish we hadn't - for her sake, even more than mine... Anyway, this morning was supposed to be me being nosy about you, not the other way around.

"Look, truth be told," he went on, "we were in Gollund, a few days back, and I ran into someone who was in Viera House, the year below me. He has a younger brother who was in your year, and he said that you, and the rest of your squad who survived, were expelled from the Akademy, but no-one knew exactly _why_ – though there were any number of rumours. I might not even have recognised you so easily, last night, if I hadn't heard that story less than a week ago."

Ramza told him a little – the bare essentials – of what had happened in the days running up to the horrendous occurrence at Ziekden Fortress. He told of the Brigade's attack on his home and his brother, their kidnapping of Tietra and attempted kidnapping of Alma, of his and Delita's decision to try to get her back themselves, just in case that little tit, Argath, had been right about Dycedarg's duplicity. With sorrow now, because Juliana had died and it appeared he'd managed to ruin the others lives as well, he told how the rest of the squad had all agreed to come with them, even after being told that it was, more or less, against orders.

Ramza's face looked pained throughout his retelling. He'd actually said to the squad that he thought Delita was wrong about Dycedarg and that, even if he wasn't, Zalbaag would certainly _never_ put defeating such a tiny broken remnant of the Brigade ahead of Tietra's safety. He didn't go in to that much detail with Ladd, though. He did tell of Tietra being shot, though not that it was specifically at Zalbaag's order, and how Delita had died in the explosion afterwards, still cradling his sister's lifeless body.

They both sat quietly for some time after that, Ramza concentrating on keeping his face an emotionless mask. He knew his voice had cracked a time or two, but he'd managed to keep from weeping openly. Maybe he'd just cried himself dry over the last few days, he thought.

"I'm sorry, laddie, if I'd known, I would never have asked you to tell me. The rumours I was told, from the Akademy, were actually quite salacious – mostly about you and your friend disappearing with the four girls on your squad for a week or more when you should have been guarding the castle walls – you can probably imagine the rest.

"How two people on the squad ended up dead didn't exactly fit, of course, but that part was so vague, I didn't think it was true. Turns out, it was the only true part." Ladd looked uncomfortable and briefly touched Ramza's shoulder in sympathy.

Ramza's shock at the content of the rumours actually pulled him partially out of his dour humour. He gaped at Ladd for a moment, then his face hardened and he gave a cynical laugh.

"It always amazes me how rumour so often _does_ get distorted into something salacious. Gods, I would _never_ have... I mean, they were nice girls, _good _girls.._. they _would never_..._" Of course, he remembered, Juliana _had_ been sleeping with Delita, but... well... the two of them had _cared_ for one another, it certainly hadn't been like _that_!

He saw Ladd give a nod, but his expression seemed a little distracted.

"You know, Ramza, I've been thinking. You saw something of the argument between my boss and the other two members of our team. Apparently their differences couldn't be reconciled, so he paid them off, early this morning. He'll be looking to recruit another couple of men – and it will be _men_, Ser Gaffgarion's old fashioned that way – so I was thinking... Your boss clearly isn't happy with you and you don't seem too happy with the way things are here, either. So... what if I were to put a word in for you so that you could join us?

"Gaffgarion's not the most personable of men, I'll admit," Ladd went on, "but he pays _fairly_ well and usually on time. He can be a grumpy old bastard on occasion, but if you can put up with it, it'd at least be a lot more interesting than policing the tap-room of this place. You've certainly got the skills for it and you can't tell me you don't know that you're wasted here.

"Don't worry, I don't have to tell him who you really are. I'll just say you're another Akademy drop-out, like me. You obviously don't go by Beoulve these days, not the way you reacted when I said it, so what name _do_ you use?" Ramza told him, explaining that Lugria was his mother's maiden name, but not that it was his own birth name.

"So what do you think?" Ladd asked, obviously referring to his offer.

"Will the pair of you still be here this evening? I'm not certain about this. I'd like a few hours to think about it." Ramza said, tentatively.

"Yeah. The boss has a meeting with a potential client in the Boar's Head, early evening, but if I tell him to meet us in the tap here, afterwards, you can talk to him and make your mind up."

The idea of being a sellsword simply didn't hold much appeal for Ramza, but he seemed to have worn his welcome at the Brown Bear pretty thin, especially if Annabel continued to annoy her father by mooning over him. Perhaps he might give the mercenaries' life a try, if only for few months. There was surely no harm in meeting with this "Ser Gaffgarion", at least.

* * *

Author's Note:

Ramza could so easily become a Mary Sue, that I decided to take him down a _very_ different route. What you've just read is Ramza's "rock-bottom", though. Even by the start of Chapter 2 of the game, which isn't too far ahead, he'll be starting, slowly, to climb back out from the pit he's allowed himself to fall into.

So why does my version of Ramza order _milk_ when he goes into a bar? Obviously, it's not because he's a goody-two-shoes, but because he's a recovering alcoholic. I've not seen that idea used before so, when it popped into my head, I decided to run with it. Sorry if it doesn't sit well with everyone. Flame me if you want – I'll probably cry – but go ahead, if you feel you must. I will say that, for me, this feels more real than the saintly Ramza who never touches alcohol because he's just such a good boy.

The thing is, he _is_ a good boy/man, throughout the game, but good is far from the same as perfect! Besides, perfect is trite and incredibly dull. Hey, if you don't like alcoholic Ramza, think about this: Opium is available in Ivalice – Mustadio mentions that the Baert Company smuggles it – I could have made him an opium addict instead, or _as well_!

I was never sure how Ramza could ever have come to work for Gaffgarion, who's not the nicest of men and certainly not on the good side of the moral scales! So I thought that the easiest explanation might be that he got chatting with Gaffgarion's subordinate, took a liking to him and just, sort of, fell into it because he had nothing better to do with his life, at that point. It's probably far from being the perfect explanation, but it gets the job done.


End file.
